


Thermogenesis

by lunarjasmine



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Choking, F/M, Like soft non-con, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Avengers (2012), Rape/Non-con Elements, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 17:44:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14938931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunarjasmine/pseuds/lunarjasmine
Summary: After the Battle of New York, Loki is banished to Midgard and imprisoned in Stark Tower as penance for his crimes. Unfortunately for you, Loki doesn't need to be a free man to cause trouble.





	Thermogenesis

**Author's Note:**

> Thermogenesis: The production of heat.
> 
> Loosely based off of this prompt I found from a list online: Imagine Person A keeps having nightmares about Person B. They don’t know what disturbs them more— how scary the dreams are, or how arousing they are.

The dreams always start the same way. It's pitch black. You wake up, scrubbing the sleep from your eyes with one hand, the other creeping along the wall looking for the light switch. You can't find it; just a blank smooth space under your fingertips. You fumble in the sheets for your phone to use the flashlight, but the phone is gone.

It's so cold. As you push off the blankets and climb out of bed, the air stabs you like a thousand icy needles. Your skin breaks out in gooseflesh. Your eyes adjust slowly to the dark, enough for you to make out a thin strip of bluish light leaking under the edge of your door.

The doorknob hurts when you turn it, frozen metal sticking to your skin. So cold it burns. The hall is silent. It shouldn't be; the first thing you learned after moving to Stark Tower is that someone is always awake no matter what time it is. Shouldn't you be able to hear Tony up late tinkering with something? Shouldn't there be light spilling out from under Dr. Banner’s door? Shouldn't there be a hint of burnt popcorn in the air, so that when you round the corner you can find Clint in the living area, bowl in lap and remote control in hand? What about Natasha? She's not up pacing the hall? Steve isn't trying to figure out some new piece of technology?

Where is everyone? The rooms are dark and empty.

Your feet take you into the living room of their own accord; you're a passenger in your own body. The window is open- is that the reason why your skin is starting to go numb? By the time you reach the window and close it, you're shivering hard enough that it's almost painful and you still don't feel any warmer.

The sky is shot through with millions, if not billions of stars. It doesn't look like the New York City night sky, rife with smog and light pollution at all.

“You Midgardians are so fragile. So _weak_.” The voice comes from behind you. It's chilled silk; familiar and not particularly welcome. There are only two people in Stark Tower who refer to people as Midgardians, and the voice certainly doesn't belong to Thor.

“Strong enough to keep you locked up,” is what you would say if your lips, tongue, throat weren't all frozen and unresponsive. Instead, all you can manage is a small sound, halfway between a squeak and a whimper.

Apparently you don't have to say things out loud, not in this dream, because he answers, “Oh, is that what you call yourselves doing?” Your stomach twists, your heart pounds. It's so dark. You can't see the living room anymore; you can't even turn your head. A hand cards slowly through your hair; a fingertip trails down your neck. Your pulse flutters and Loki laughs and does it again. He pushes your hair to one side, dips his head to nuzzle just below and behind your ear. The window begins to cloud over; the arm Loki slips around your waist is proprietary.

You want to wake up, but your mind just won't cooperate and your body is moving of its own accord again, turning into his embrace. You don't want that, but you _do,_  but either way you're helpless to stop it. You press your eyes closed, scrunching your face like a child afraid of the monster under her bed. It doesn't work. A hand lifts your chin and your eyes open to meet his.

You wish he looked like a monster, but he doesn't. His breath ghosts across your lips and your blood roars in your ears and he's _so close_ -

Your alarm clock screeches the opening bars of some song- you no longer remember which, as you never let it go on for more than a second or two- and without looking around, you raise your hand and blast it off of the nightstand. You trace your lips with your other hand; they tingle faintly and your heart still beats hard.

“Nice try, Y/N.” Tony Stark’s voice, too smug and chipper for this hour of the morning, comes out of the bottom speaker of the alarm. “I made _this_ alarm clock out of the same alloy I use for my suits, you won't be able to-”

You close your palm and focus, crushing the device to rubble where it lays.

“Okay, well played.” Tony says when you finally exit your bedroom. “But mark my words, one day I will invent an alarm clock that you can't destroy.”

“I'm sure.”

“Is that sarcasm? I can never tell with you.” Tony leans close, peering into your face. “Feeling alright? You look a little…” He gestures vaguely at your eyes.

“Like shit?” You offer. You certainly feel like it, yet another nightmare taking its toll on your sleep patterns.

“You said it, not me.” Tony turns and heads off to his lab. As he's walking away, he calls back, “Cap is in the training room. He mentioned wanting to spar with you a little, see your technique before we OK you for field work.”

Field work. Looks like there might be a light at the end of the novice Avenger tunnel after all, though when you're feeling this bad, you're not sure that you'll impress.

“You're not on top of it today, Y/N.” Steve tells you after the third time he manages to pin you in as many minutes. You're pretty sure you're flushed and sweating; the blond has barely even registered any effort at all. Even his hair is still in place. “What's going on? Are you feeling well? Need to talk about anything?” This much sympathy from anyone else would be cloying, especially after they just kicked your ass from here to next week Tuesday, but from Steve, you know it's genuine. His big blue eyes are concerned and he rests a supportive palm between your shoulders.

“I just haven't been sleeping well for a little bit. Really persistent… nightmare.” _Yes, a nightmare._ You sit at the edge of the sparring ring and wipe a hand down your face. Sweaty _and_ greasy. Lovely.

“Tell me about it.” The platform creaks under his weight as he sits beside you. “Sometimes talking about it will help.”

“I can't remember much,” You lie. You are not about to tell Steve that you're having dreams about being chased/seduced by Loki, of all people. You wouldn't tell Steve the specifics of the dream anyway, but especially not when it revolves around the villain locked up in the basement. “It's cold and dark. I can't find a light switch. I go into the hallway and no one is there, the whole tower is deserted. I go into the living room and close the window but it's still cold. I can't move, can't talk and there's… someone bad behind me. Then I wake up.”

When you glance up at him again, his expression is faraway but strained, like he's remembering something he'd rather forget. You suppose if anyone can relate to a nightmare about being trapped somewhere cold and dark, it would be him.

“Do you think maybe you're feeling nervous? Trapped, even?” Steve offers, when he comes back to the present. “I mean, all of this-” He looks around the room, but you understand that he means much more than just the training center, more than just Stark Tower. “This is a big adjustment. A big lifestyle change. Maybe your subconscious is trying to tell you that you're getting overwhelmed. There's no shame in that.”

“Maybe. I don't feel overwhelmed. Not consciously anyway. But I've been having the same dream for weeks now.”

“Weeks?” His voice is reproachful. “Y/N, why didn't you tell anybody? We could have done something to help.”

“Jeez, Steve, what was I supposed to say? ‘Hey guys, I'm having bad dreams’?”

“That would have worked.”

You can't stop a derisive snort from escaping. “I'd sound like the world's biggest baby.”

“You wouldn't. We're your friends, remember?” Steve cracks a smile for the first time since the conversation started. “Go hit the showers. I'll see if Bruce or anyone has something you can take to get some shut-eye.”

A shower sounds like a great idea. At least, it _did_ , right up until you started to lather your hair. A bead of water trickles down your neck, the same path that Loki's fingers have taken every night for the past few weeks, and all at once you're back in your nightmare. Was it a nightmare? You aren't sure. You never are, not even when you're dreaming it. You shut off the water in a hurry.

When you finish toweling off and exit your bathroom, a bottle of pills have appeared on your nightstand, along with a glass of water and a note.

“Take one to nap, two to sleep and three to party.

Feel better kid.

-Tony”

“Three to party.” You mutter to yourself, picking up the bottle. Partying, especially the Tony Stark kind, isn't something you feel up to at the moment; you only shake two of the small white pills into your palm, swallowing them down with a mouthful of water.

It's still early in the day and the sun is leaking through your blinds and you don't think there's a chance of you falling asleep until you do, a sleep that's heavy and sodden and almost feverish. The last conscious thought that meanders through your mind before you uncouple from reality is _What kind of parties does Tony go to?_

“Resorting to pills to get me out of your head? I'm almost offended.”

The light coming in through your blinds is all wrong; the warm golden sunlight is gone, all that filters through now is starlight, cool and dim.

Loki is fair enough that he glows in starlight, his hair a river of ink, casting shadow where it passes along his cheek, jawline, neck. “And here I thought we were building something special together.”

The dream is different now. Still dark and cold, but your body isn't forcing you out of bed, and the door looks miles away. In fact, you don't think you could get up even if you wanted to. You don't; the room is frigid, your breath fogging from your lips and you'd much rather wait under your blankets for all of this to be over.

“You're not really here.” This is the first time you've been able to speak in this dream; your voice surprises you. “You're in a holding cell in the basement.”

“Oh?” He gives you an unsettlingly charming grin, runs his hand over the pile of blankets at the foot of your bed. The smooth fabric rustles under his palm, the blankets shift at his touch. “If you say so.” The mattress dips under his weight as he leans over you.

“Are you haunting anyone else's dreams, or just mine?”

“Would you be jealous if I was?” He's close enough for you to feel his breath, soft against your face; close enough for his hair to brush along your cheeks; close enough for you to smell him: pine needles and fragrant woodsmoke.

“I'd be relieved.”

“Hm. In that case, I'm sorry to disappoint you.” His voice lowers, softens; it's all at once too intimate, too personal, and your pulse speeds and you begin to feel warm, even though the room is gelid. Your body is heavy, leaden feeling, and it takes a monumental effort to even turn your face away from his, though you manage the small sign of token resistance. Laughter shakes his frame; he feels solid and real against you as he trails his lips down your cheek, presses little kisses against your throat.

Loki finds a spot with his tongue that makes your breath catch and he must notice because he abruptly slows, lingering there until he pulls a whimper from you. It makes him laugh again as he draws back, gives you space to breathe. Only for an instant; he takes advantage of the false sense of security his pause gives you and sinks his teeth into the junction of your neck and shoulder. You yelp, and flinch against him and this doesn't feel like a dream at _all_. It's too long, for one and you can feel the weight of him pressed against you, hear the air rumbling from the ceiling vent as the air conditioning cycles. Loki moves away to adjust his hair, pulling it back into a loose ponytail and you can see the slight indentation the band left on his wrist; would your mind really fill in a detail like that?

His hands are impatient, pulling away the blankets that cover you, and when you're left in just the t-shirt you took a nap in, the thick fabric of his clothing chafes your skin where he straddles your hips. He does something with his fingers and his clothes dissolve into green smoke and you think with a sense of relief, _Oh, so I am dreaming_.

His palms run down your body and back up again, feeling your shape through the thin cotton before cradling your face in both hands. His thumbs graze over your lower lip as he tears his gaze away from your mouth to meet yours. His pupils are wide, questioning, almost vulnerable as he reads your face.

_Since it's just a dream…_ You rationalize and tilt your chin up for him, an unspoken yes. Loki is more gentle than you were expecting as he captures your lips with his, and now it's his turn to make a half stifled little whimper while his fingers slide into your hair and his hips rock, more insistently now, into yours. “I've been waiting for permission to do that for some time.” He murmurs.

“You mean you wait for permission before you do things? Really?” The incredulity in your voice seems to exasperate him.

He covers your mouth with his again to silence you. Loki kisses in a manner befitting his temperament; teasing and impish. His touch is light and chaste until you press for him, determined to turn you from pursued into pursuer. His tongue flicks across your lips but when you part them he has already pulled back and he smiles into your mouth at the soft noise of frustration that escapes your throat. “Not things, only people.” He smirks at his own wit.

His hands slip under your shirt, cool against your flushed, warm skin as he cups your breast in one palm, stroking with a feather-light touch. Your skin pebbles in the cold as he pulls the shirt over your head; as he drags his fingertips down your body. You quickly warm again under his weight as he leans down and presses a few open mouthed kisses into your neck before taking one of your nipples into his mouth.

Fire flickers through your stomach as he coaxes first one, then the other to hardness with his tongue; flares to life as he begins to suck on them. Loki spreads your thighs with his hand and slides two fingers into your slick heat, his touch practiced and sure. Asgardian women must be built similarly to Midgardian ones; he angles his wrist and crooks his fingers, and it's scarcely any time at all before you're seeing stars behind your eyelids. You bite your lip to stifle your moans and your hand fists in his hair- too hard; he gives you a soft warning nip, relenting when you relax your grip. “Such impatience.” He complains as he pulls away. It's a gentle chide, one that loses even the barest hint of earnestness when he brushes a kiss against your lips and his knee insinuates itself between your thighs, nudging them apart so he can kneel between them.

He's watching your face for a reaction as he teases your entrance with the head of his cock; staring so intently that you turn your head to burrow into the pillows again, feeling exposed.

“Diffidence is such a _tedious_ personality trait.” Loki muses, not slowing the motion of his hips. “I'll have to break you of that.” His touch is insistent, cupping your cheek in one palm and forcing you out of your hiding spot in the nest of fabric. Several sarcastic rejoinders flit through your mind but vanish into the ether when Loki finally stops teasing and presses into you. The sensation is intense, straddling the knife’s edge between pleasure and pain as your walls stretch to accommodate him. It pulls a sound from your throat, one that Loki must like, because his eyes flutter closed, his lips part and his head falls back, exposing the pale smooth column of his throat.

It's the first you've felt a sense of control in this dream in weeks; you lean into it, into him, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him closer. It changes the angle, drives him in almost too deep and it aches, but a good ache that only gets better when he moans, his nails digging into the sheets. “You take me so well, dove,” He purrs, his voice a heated murmur in your ear. “You're so wet and eager for me.”

There's a hitch in his voice, his breathing erratic when he kisses you again; no games this time, his lips hungry and demanding on yours as he licks his way into your mouth. The pace Loki sets is urgent, almost harsh, his teasing demeanor gone. The air that was painfully cold earlier feels like heaven against your overheated skin as Loki straightens up, dark eyes roving your form. His normally smooth, silken hair is damp and wavy, the loose ponytail having fallen out unnoticed at some point; he clears it from his face with a brisk toss of his head. Sweat glimmers on his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose; his color high, roses in his cheeks.

You're slick enough that you can hear it, each thrust bringing you closer to your peak. Loki passes his thumb along your throat, soft at first; when you don't resist, he wraps his fingers around your neck and squeezes _just_ enough to make it hard for you to breathe. His other thumb finds your clit, rubbing circles into you, harder and faster as you arch into him; it adds to the flames coursing through your veins, but what ultimately pushes you over the edge is the impatient, hungry noise he makes, half groan and half growl, as though he is just as eager for your orgasm as you are. You let your body go limp in his embrace, let your eyes shut as the waves of sensation wash over you.

The lack of air makes everything feel distant and faint, but you can still tell when Loki comes; his hips stutter, his body tenses and his grip tightens, though he thankfully retains the presence of mind to stop short of crushing your windpipe. When your eyes open again, he's caressing your face, his expression almost tender, though it's fluidly replaced by the familiar mischievous smirk. “Sleep well, darling.” He murmurs, pressing his fingertips to your temple, and you fall into blackness.

When you wake, there's daylight streaming through the blinds, making you wince and rub your eyes. Your sleep shirt sticks to you with sweat and- _didn't Loki take that off last night_?- the thought stymies you for a moment before you remember that you were dreaming, a hyper-vivid bit of weirdness from your subconscious, courtesy of Tony Stark and his mystery sleeping pills.

You fumble along the nightstand with one hand while you lift your phone in the other, searching for the glass of water to soothe your dry throat. Your fingers find it, slick with condensation and you frown as you lift it to your face.

The water is frozen.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thanks for reading :)


End file.
